A Christmas Eve Story
by Miss Femm
Summary: Christmas 1985. Another Christmas Eve, another lonely evening watching television in the Murder Hut; however, a visit from an attractive employee might make Stan's holiday spirits change. [Mullet!Stan/Fem!OC; kind of, maybe]


Christmas Eve 1985. Stan Pines dug some gold and shiny tinsel out of his belly button, wondering how it had come to be there in the first place.

It was the usual Christmas for him, at least since fate had brought him to Gravity Falls to stay. Dressed in a button down shirt and slacks, he was burrowed in his favorite lumpy armchair in the living room, watching the crappy little television set with all the lights out, a half-consumed beer in one hand while he scratched his stubbled face with the other. A fire roared in the fire place, though he'd only bothered with that because the heater had malfunctioned and there was no hope of it being fixed until the twenty-sixth of the month. Sure, he was alone, stuck watching stop motion Christmas specials that were intended for people much younger than his thirty plus years old self, but it was a condition much preferable to spending Christmas half frozen to death in his car.

Still, that didn't mean he had to like the arrangement. He tried his best not to think of childhood Christmases back in New Jersey; they never got that many presents from their cheapskate father and always had to deal with the small apartment being crammed to its very limited capacity with obnoxious relatives they barely knew, but at least he'd had Ford and hours on the frozen Glass Shard Beach to spend with their imaginations. Since he'd turned eighteen, he'd spent the holidays alone. Hell, the last time he got a Christmas card it was from the old mob boss Rico, who, beneath images of smiling elves and gingerbread men, personally wrote, " _To Stan Pines, Give me the money you've been owing for six months or you are a dead man come the new year. Feliz Navidad_."

Unfortunately, business was dead during the Christmas week, forcing Stan to close up shop and spend time by himself or at the local pub alternatively entertaining and annoying the locals with his tall tales. Today he was just in the mood for getting hammered by himself. Once he was done with the beer, he'd crack open some Jack Daniels he'd picked up the night before Christmas—the perfect gift to himself.

Just as whatever crappy sequel to _Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer_ ended with _It's A Wonderful Life_ coming on next, Stan heard something in the gift shop. Something like footsteps.

Every bit of hair on his very hairy body stood on end. His blood became as cold as the ice outside the cabin. It could be a burglar. Or maybe even one of Rico's men come to finish the job.

Reaching beneath one of the sofa cushions, he pulled out his trusty baseball bat and silently made his way to the gift shop. It was incredibly dark and he could make out nothing but a shadowy figure approaching the counter. Lightning quick, Stan turned on the lights, let out a battle cry worthy of the greatest of Vikings, and pulled the bat above his head, ready to pummel the intruder to a bloody pulp. But once he realized who it was, he stayed himself.

One of his underpaid and overworked employees, the quiet one who ran the gift shop and never complained much. She was a pretty young thing, rather tempting in her own college aged way, though Stan restrained his sentiments to somewhat malevolent glances and cheesy lines that the young woman never seemed to understand. However, he was never convinced that she was that innocent, judging by the amount of times her face had turned red when he lavished any sort of prolonged attention upon her. Or maybe she had just had a bad sun burn, but it was much more fun to assume she had the hots for him too.

"What are ya doin' here? Sneakin' around like a burglar or somethin'—say, you ain't trying to steal from me, are ya?" he said, putting the end of the bat underneath her chin.

"Oh God no," she cried, shaking her head vigorously as she pulled herself back. "I forgot the keys to my car before we closed up two days ago! How am I supposed to get back home for the New Year without them?"

Stan stood up straight, swinging the bat over one of his shoulders. "You couldn't just knock on the door and ask?"

She rubbed the back of her neck, an anxious look overtaking her face. "I figured you'd be… well, too drunk to answer, so I let myself in."

Stan felt a little embarrassed at that, though even he knew his drinking wasn't much of a secret to anyone. He stepped back. She knelt behind the counter, rummaging through the miscellaneous objects beneath it.

"Ah, go on then…," he said. "Then ya can just get out. You know where the door is…"

"Would it be alright if I stayed for just a few minutes?" she asked, her voice slightly trembling as she shivered beneath her coat. "I just spent half an hour out there, and I'm damn close to catching hypothermia!"

That was a tough one, but in the end, Stan shrugged. Christmas might be a little less boring with a few minutes of company. "Sure, why not?"

It took her five minutes to realize the keys were not in the Murder Hut gift shop. A little discouraged, she went into the living room and practically dashed to the fire place. Stan watched her as she took off her damp coat and boots, revealing a brightly colored sweater and tight miniskirt beneath the thick outerwear. All she had covered everything below was a pair of leg warmers and black flats that would have been soaked through in the snow.

 _No wonder she was freezing_ , thought Stan. _Who in their right mind wears a fuckin' miniskirt in the dead of winter—in Oregon of all places?_

At the very least, Stan got somewhat of a benefit from her poor fashion decisions. She was never hard to look at, that was for sure.

And as he saw her form silhouetted by the fire in the intimate darkness of the living room, the gears in that square shaped head of his began to turn. Maybe this Christmas needn't be so dull after all… A Machiavellian smirk crept up on his face.

"What are you smiling at?" the employee asked, wringing some ice water out of her large curly hair.

"Oh, it's just the holiday spirit possessing me like an unholy demon monster," replied Stan, clasping his hands together and chuckling. He sat down next to her. "So… what do you do during the holidays?"

"Nothing much," she said. "At least not this year. I'm usually back in Portland with my family, but the road got snowed in, so I'll have to wait a few days before I can even attempt to escape this crummy little town, you know?"

All of that was barely filtered through Stan's increasingly overheated brain.

"You don't plan on visiting family?" she asked.

"Don't really have any," he replied, not willing to discuss that issue.

"Oh. So no one's coming over here for the holiday?"

"Nope," he said, scooting closer. "Just you an' me, toots. You an' me in this lonely, isolated cabin..." He snaked an arm around her waist, pulling her closer to him and closing the distance between the two of them once and for all. She didn't protest; no, she actually leaned into him, so close that he could tell what scent shampoo she had used the night before.

"Just you and me," she repeated slowly, as though savoring the words. "So you say you're wanting to spend Christmas night with me then?"

"Oh yeah, baby…"

"That's interesting—ah!"

She gasped when he put his other hand to work on her inner thigh, starting to tremble anew. She clutched at his chest as though to anchor herself.

"Oh God, Stan," she hissed in between her teeth. "Are you sure this is—?"

He quickly hushed her with a kiss, pressing down upon, nearly smothering her with all of his body weight. The action caused her to lose her balance on the edge of the hearth and then the two of them fell onto the carpet, him on top and practically eating her mouth. Then he moved to that space between her neck and collarbone, biting and rolling his tongue along its surface while she made a series of unladylike noises, trying to keep them down by biting her bottom lip.

"Think I never noticed the way ya just turn pink around me?" he breathed in her ear. "Don't play so coy like that—you've been thinkin' dirty about me too, haven't ya?"

"Well, you've caught me," she said, wrapping her arms around his neck, kissing him back with an aggression that was strange coming from her. "What do you plan to do about it, Mr. Pines?"

Stan laughed. "I hope you'll call me Stan once you start moaning my name, doll!"

Her eyes flickered back toward the door. "Oh but Stan, are you sure no one's coming over? The last thing we need is someone walking in…"

"Ha! No way—there ain't gonna be any interruptions between you an' me for the next hour. We can take our sweet, sweet time. Say, it's kinda uncomfortable doing it on the floor. How's about we head somewhere more cozy?"

"Your bedroom?"

"Good thinkin'!"

The two scrambled to their feet and rushed to Stan's room. An incredibly small space more suited to a bathroom or a walk in closet, Stan had managed to shove a bed and night stand in there. He shut the door behind them and leapt on top of the young woman with a great amount of gusto, ready to rip her sweater to shreds.

But then the unexpected occurred, just the sort of thing Stan normally promised (and subsequently ripped off) to those who ventured into the Murder Hut. The girl wrapped her legs around Stan's torso and then with great effort, rolled him over, leaving her on top. Before he could really react, she dove down and pinned his arms above his head. He felt something cold press against his left wrist.

The click of hand cuffs. She'd fastened one of his wrists to the headboard. Stan was alternatively aroused and freaked out.

"Uh… you ain't a cop are ya?" he asked, sweat beading on his forehead. Wouldn't this be an awkward way to get arrested?

She smiled and started unbuttoning the rest of his dress shirt, revealing a carpet of dark, curly hair. "Only for the next few minutes… I'm going to have to give you a most thorough examination."

Stan burst out into his characteristically obnoxious laughter. "Heh, it's always the quiet ones that think the dirtiest—well ya could have at least read me my rights first!"

She leaned down and planted another passionate and heady kiss on him, running her tongue along his front row of teeth. He shuddered. Her middle section was against his crotch, which was already halfway to attention with excitement. He had to admit it, it was weird being on the bottom for a dominating guy like him. But then again, there was a first time for everything, wasn't there? He used his free hand to run his fingers through her hair, and then cup her cheek just as she started to pull away, hopefully to put her mouth to use on more urgent matters…

And then she started chuckling as she moved off of him altogether, pulling her sweater back down as she did so.

"H-hey—hey, where ya goin' baby?" Stan stammered.

She didn't say anything, but left the room, continuing to laugh and not looking back at her bewildered boss splayed across the bed.

"Hey! Come finish what ya started! What—what are ya doin'?!"

He could hear her footsteps rush to the gift shop. Then there was the jingle of the coins in the cash register as it was being lifted from the counter and then dragged across the floor. She started to laugh manically in the manner of a Christmas special villain.

"Looks like I got myself a nice Christmas bonus. See ya later, Mr. Pines!"

"WHAT?" he roared, struggling to get off the mattress, but the handcuffs held him fast to the head board. "Get back here! Get back here _now_! I shoulda known you were after my money, even if I did rip off people ta get it! You are _fired_ , missy!"

"Consider this my resignation, Mr. Pines!"

And then, Stan heard the door slam shut, the squeal of tires in the snow, and then a car engine retreating further and further away until all he could hear was Jimmy Stewart on the television in the living room. Letting out a great moan of frustration, he flung himself back onto the mattress, a deep scowl across his face, the bulge in his pants still present and getting to be more than a little painful. Looks like it was he who someone had had their way with—and not in the way he would have liked either.

Well, it could always be worse, he supposed. In a few hours, he'd probably be able to pry his hand loose from the head board, maybe sooner if he had the energy. He had chewed himself out of the trunk of a car before and escaped the bonds of hundreds of mob bosses he'd owed money. Being tethered to his own bed by a beautiful thief—that was nothing to sweat over.

And so Stan yanked and yanked, spewing expletives into the chilly air as the unattended fire in the living room died away. He nearly dislocated his poor wrist until the head board gave way and smacked him hard on the head, knocking him unconscious for the next four hours. He spent them well, dreaming of Christmases past.

 _ **A/N: Kind of mean, but I couldn't help it. I laughed while writing the ending, but I still cannot decide whether it's funny or depressing. I'm sure there is a special place in hell for me.**_


End file.
